One Hundredth Magic Read online

  Accurate assessment, he thought, but he also guessed that none of the watchers would disperse until the sculpture was complete.

  Two hours later Jantaru stepped away from his creation and wiped his hands across his robe, leaving gray streaks across the yellow fabric. The same height as the artist, the crouching figure menaced the crowd with long claws and glaring eyes. Curved spikes protruded from the elbows and knees. Alexander couldn't recall seeing anything like the creature in his travels, not even in the incredible menageries of Ratecliffe.

  Standing next to his wagon, Jantaru was obviously exhausted. He weaved on his feet, eyes sliding closed. A pair of stout young men appeared and caught the artist under the arms. Alexander took notice of their uniform dress immediately—purple tunics with gold piping on the sleeves, black trousers and high boots. Each wore two curved daggers in his belt, an odd weapon for Hurst. Four more similarly dressed attendants strained together to lift the sculpture, depositing it carefully in the wagon. They lashed it in place with thick ropes. As the horses started forward, Alexander realized that Jantaru had vanished. His back and legs protested as he hoisted his pack back onto his shoulder.

  “Now, there's something you're lucky to see once in a lifetime,” said Helvaard's friend.

  “And you were right about him,” Helvaard replied, clapping the other dwarf on the shoulder. “Guess I owe you a mug or two."

  The dwarves strode off and people began jostling Alexander from all sides as they returned to whatever chores they'd been attending hours earlier. Alexander realized he still held the core of his apple, which was already turning brown. Tossing it to the side of the road, he set off once again across the plaza.

  With the spell of Jantaru's artistry ended, Alexander's displeasure at being in Hurst returned. He glanced at the shops lining the plaza, wondering which were legitimate businesses and which fronted black market operations. A woman to Alexander's left waved to a friend—was it just a greeting, or a sign between two pickpockets searching for an unwary target? He studied the crowd as he walked, his feeling of helplessness increasing with every step. In Addamantia he could identify the dishonest merchants, the con men scanning for a mark, the men and women who could provide a link to the city's shadowy underworld. Here, though, in unfamiliar Hurst, he was out of his element. He felt like a recruit again, stepping into the street for the first time. He shook his head and sighed, eyes alert while his mind thought of home.

  * * * * *

  A roaring fire of blue flame filled the wizard's chamber with enough heat that the unlit candles were beginning to melt. Inside the hearth, an iron bucket hung over the small inferno. Two doors led from the room, one exiting to the wizard's apartment, the other to the keep. A clay pot rested on a massive stone table, which dominated the center of the room. Dark-brown dirt filled the pot, and a pale white seed lay nestled on top. Other than the pot and a small knife, the tabletop was bare. The walls of the room, however, were lined with shelves, and these threatened to spill over their contents at any moment. The wooden slats strained to hold a vast accumulation of jars, urns, metal boxes, glass bottles, candleholders, bits of bone, small chests and hundreds of other items from the arcane miscellany.

  Perched on a small ledge next to the lone window was a fat bright-green frog. A gold chain led from an anchor in the wall to a leather collar around its thick chest. The frog stared at the figure standing before the table and wiping his fingers on his robe. He was very tall and found it necessary to bend at the waist as he worked. His gold-colored hair framed an unlined face of thirty-five or possibly forty years. Frowning, Nikkolynda stared at the seed and thought for a moment. He reached out and pushed the small shell deep into the dirt, then nodded. Behind him, a low groan sounded over the snap of the fire.

  Nikkolynda turned and looked at the man bound to his workroom wall. The captive, clad only in a pair of torn trousers, was fastened to the stone blocks by thick bands of iron. His eyes were wide as they darted between the window and Nikkolynda, and his mouth remained clamped shut as if he constantly ground his teeth. Sweat streamed down the man's face and chest, staining the waistband of his trousers. The muscles in his arms and chest bulged, though he didn't struggle.

  Beside him, the open window provided a panoramic view of Hurst's northeast corner. The city lay far below, distant enough that the people looked like ants in the afternoon sun. The window was set in the northern wall of the keep, and the corner of the structure obscured the view of Shipman's Plaza. Small loss, in Nikkolynda's opinion. There wasn't a seaport within a hundred miles of Hurst, and the wizard had no desire to gaze at an ineptly named landmark every day.

  “Too warm for you?” asked Nikkolynda.

  The captive blinked rapidly, but he didn't speak.

  “No matter,” said the wizard. “We'll be done in a few minutes, and I'll douse the fire.” Despite his captive's obvious discomfort, Nikkolynda failed to perspire.

  The fire crackled, drawing Nikkolynda's attention. He strode across the room and glanced into the iron bucket. Satisfied, he returned to his captive, grabbing the knife from the table on the way. He placed one hand atop the bound man's shaved head, then grimaced. A scrap of a rag lay on one shelf, and Nikkolynda used it to dry first his hand, then the captive's head. This done, he gripped the bald pate once more and raised the knife. The man began making choking sounds in the back of his throat. The frog bobbed its head and chirruped at the wizard.

  “Now, now,” said Nikkolynda, “You know perfectly well he can't feel this. He wouldn't even know my hand was on his head if he didn't see it. And that won't be a problem in a moment."

  The captive's scalp was beginning to moisten once again, so Nikkolynda set to work. He placed the tip of the knife against the man's cheekbone, on the edge just below the right eye. With careful concentration the wizard slipped the sharp point below the slick orb. The captive whimpered slightly, but his jaw remained locked. Nikkolynda probed carefully until he'd worked the blade around to the outside corner of the eye socket. With a quick twist he popped the glistening sphere free. A perfect procedure; the eye dangled against its owner's cheek from a thick length of optic nerve.

  Releasing the man's head, Nikkolynda grasped the eyeball carefully between thumb and forefinger, then cut the nerve with the edge of his knife. He turned from the wall and carefully placed the organ in the clay pot. He tucked the severed nerve ending carefully into the soil. Moving quickly, the wizard reached for a long iron handle resting on the lip of the bucket. Though the container glowed from exposure to the flame, the heat apparently failed to transfer from the spoon to Nikkolynda's flesh. He returned to the table and tipped the spoon over the clay pot, allowing a steaming blue liquid to drip over the soil. He then described a circle around the disembodied eye, which simply stared into the corner of the room. When the circle was closed, the syrupy liquid sank slowly into the dirt. A ring of blue smoke drifted toward the ceiling as it vanished. Nikkolynda glanced over his shoulder at the captive, whose guttural noises were growing louder.

  “Yes, the fire, thank you.” The wizard pulled a jar from a shelf and scooped out a handful of sand. He tossed it into the hearth, and the fire winked out instantly. Rubbing his hands against one another, Nikkolynda stepped in front of the window and examined his victim critically. The man's arms and legs twitched almost imperceptibly. His remaining eye rolled wildly. A shadow passed over him as a cloud blew between the sun and window.

  “Don't you worry,” said Nikkolynda. “After we're done, you'll never miss it."

  The frog croaked. It bobbed up and down on its front legs, blinking at something across the room. A brick was missing from the top layer of the southern wall, leaving a space just below the ceiling. From the void came the sound of a soft bell.

  “Ah, the Emperor calls,” Nikkolynda said. He started for the door, and the frog chirruped loudly. Nikkolynda looked back to find the creature bobbing its head rapidly.

  “Yes, thank you.” The wizard opened a pouch at his be
lt and fished around inside for a moment. He withdrew a long chain from which dangled a flat disc of pounded gold. A triangle of white metal was inlaid on the disc. At each point of the triangle glittered a dark emerald. As the wizard slipped the amulet over his head, his physical appearance changed dramatically. He grimaced as his back and legs shortened, losing nearly a foot in height. Grey whiskers sprouted from his chin and cheeks and in seconds he boasted a long, full beard. Wrinkles formed across his face and the backs of his hands, and the golden hair faded to white. Releasing the bolt on the door, Nikkolynda reminded himself to slow his pace and stoop slightly. The door closed heavily behind him, and the frog appeared to grin at its one-eyed companion.

  * * * * *

  The moon presided over a star-filled sky as Hurst slept under the darkness of night. The gates in the southern and northern walls were locked tight, while the sheer walls of the mountains guarded the keep to the east. The highway to the western cities stood vacant, watched by archers atop the outer wall and spearmen standing in the gate itself. Torches burned at the larger intersections, but the hour was late enough that most streets were empty. An occasional reveler staggered out of a pub and into the warm night air. Criers wandered through every district, ensuring that the streetlights remained lit and calling the hour when their graduated candles burned past each mark.

  A dark shape soared high above the tableau, a silhouette of a man held aloft by broad, feathered wings. It drifted with the breeze, rising and falling with the thermal columns. From this vantage, at least three times higher than the tops of Hurst's five towers, Hawkin could see virtually all of the city. A small portion lay in the shadow of the great keep, but he knew that the majority of the hidden area was simply parade ground. He banked to the right, tunic snapping in the breeze as he altered course. The guards below never looked up. Despite his youth, Hawkin had been flying in the Hurst Air Corps for three years. The properties of air and sound were as second nature to him as footwork and parries are to a master swordsman.

  The leather harness tugged at Hawkin's chest as he passed through an updraft. The straps were thin but sturdy, the strongest the leatherworker could make without adding too much weight to the glider. Roughly two thousand feathers were carefully arranged on a metal frame to create an oversized model of an eagle's wings. The span was more than twice the length of the Flyer's body. He knew every inch of the glider intimately, understood how the air passed between the layers, how the long tip feathers controlled his turns. Twin short straps bound the frame to his biceps, and a longer belt at his waist kept the apparatus from flipping up. He gripped the directionals firmly with both hands. Though he could shrug the glider on and off in a matter of seconds, the wings felt like a natural extension of his arms.

  Of course, even with the master craftsmanship devoted to the glider and the intense training of the flyer, the projection of soldier into sky wouldn't be possible without arcane assistance. The Emperor's Prime Wizard spent a laborious day with each newly constructed glider, molding his art to strengthen the rods and joints without increasing their weight. He also brewed the sortium, the potion that enacted a similar transformation in the flyer's body. Though Hawkin massed barely three greatstone, he could easily heft weights that men twice his size would find impossible.

  A flicker of motion between the inner and outer walls caught his eye. He banked again, then flexed his shoulders to initiate a dive. A twitch of his hands made the massive wings snap loudly. The archers below looked up, but they didn't raise their bows. The wall guards were accustomed to flyers patrolling the skies, but it never hurt to alert them upon approach. Hawkin had no desire to test the aim of a nervous sentry with a quick pull.

  He soared at a steep angle between the walls, legs stretched straight behind his body, arms fully extended. Nothing appeared to be hiding in the vacant ground between barriers, so he rolled his shoulders and arched his back, forcing his body upward again. When he felt the momentum fade, Hawkin flapped his arms with strong, deliberate strokes. He shot nearly straight up, clearing the top of the inner wall in seconds. The archer peered over the wall and into the gloom. He jumped visibly as Hawkin appeared, then watched the flyer drop to the catwalk. The landing was graceful but far from light—Hawkin's own weight drove him into a crouch as his feet hit the wooden planks.

  “Something down there?” asked the archer.

  “Not that I could find.” Hawkin slipped his hands out of the directionals, and the glider's wings retracted into a folded position behind him. “Thought I saw something move, but it looks to be empty now. I'm Hawkin, Air Corps."

  “Figured you weren't cavalry,” said the archer. He grinned as they shook hands. If the flyer's strength surprised him, he hid it well. “Harnnon, one of the Emperor's own archers. Though this month I'm one of the night watchmen."

  Hawkin brushed a lock of brown hair away from his eyes and rubbed his face. His skin had the ruddy, wind-burned complexion typical of the flyers. “Beautiful month for it, though. Almost no storms, air's warm yet not hot enough to melt the wax in your wings."

  Harnnon laughed and set his bow against the wall. The archer was the physical opposite of Hawkin. The flyer was lean with long arms and legs, while Harnnon was short and broad-shouldered. Hawkin's hair flowed down to his shoulders, but the archer's head was completely shaven. The ring through Hawkin's right nostril bore the engraved insignia of his unit and his years of service to the Emperor, but the archer sported no such jewelry. The lack of rank ornamentation was at least logical. Popular myth held that the Emperor's archers had adorned themselves in a similar manner until too many sent pieces of nose winging at the enemy during the Elven Exodus. Now they displayed their rank on their shoulders, disdaining anything that could snag a bowstring.

  “You've heard the news from the gates today?” asked Harnnon. He pulled a few leaves from his pouch and tucked them between his gum and cheek, then offered the pouch to Hawkin. The flyer shook his head.

  “Haven't heard anything unusual, but I slept until I went on duty tonight. What happened?"

  “Had a tigri show up at the western gate this afternoon. Real beauty too, from the sounds of things.” Harnnon tied the drawstring on the pouch and returned it to his belt, binding it carefully to the side opposite his quiver.

  “A tigri? Gods, we haven't seen one of them since before the elves—"

  “No doubt. And if that weren't enough, a whole company of Sandlanders is camped outside the southern gate this very moment. Captain on duty wouldn't let ’em come in ’til morning."

  “Burning Men? A full company?"

  “So I've heard. We've got extra men stationed out there, just in case they aren't friendly. Pretty nervous business, if you ask me."

  “Must've been right before I came on tonight. I would've seen the lights from a group that big long before they got to the gate."

  “I dunno.” Harnnon spat over the edge of the wall. “I heard those red bastards can see in the dark."

  Hawkin shook his head. “Anything's possible. I don't know how they live out there in the desert—no water, no food. What do they eat, sand?"

  The archer laughed. The sound carried far enough that the next man down the wall looked their way and waved. “Speaking of possible, you know what I've always wondered? How the blazes do you boys stay up there in the sky for so long? I mean, I know they give you that stuff to make you stronger, that potion—"

  “Sortium,” said Hawkin. “But the trick to staying up longer is to conserve your strength. Glide with the currents instead of flapping your wings, just like an eagle. See this?” He pointed to the belt strap. “When I'm going to drift for a while, I slip it down around my legs. Takes the strain off my stomach."

  “So what's up there above the clouds? You ever flap your way straight through to the next world?"

  Hawkin winked. “Now, I can't give away all our secrets. If you ground men knew how beautiful it was up there, we'd have to fight you for our own gliders."

  Harnnon laug
hed again and spat once more. Hawkin wondered briefly if the bottom of the inner wall was encrusted with archer spittle.

  “Think I'll stay right down here on the ground,” Harnnon said. “The wind at my back's enough for me."

  “Speaking of which, I'd better get back on duty,” said Hawkin. “Stay sharp."

  “Stay aloft,” replied the archer. “I'll whistle if we see any more of those Sandlanders tonight."

  Hawkin unfolded the glider and slipped his hands through the directionals. He took a few jogging steps, then sprinted toward the edge of the catwalk and dove off. As Harnnon watched, the flyer beat his powerful arms and rose into the sky. Within seconds he had disappeared into the darkness, the sound of his wings trailing behind him. The rhythmic beat quickly faded, and the archer was alone once again.

  * * * * *

  Mezzino Malakkahn, fandyiha of the Clan Vysthuk, ate quietly while his feyrhakin argued. They spoke in their native tongue with dry, raspy voices. A thin canopy propped on four poles was the group's only shelter. Behind them, similar arrangements covered one hundred soldiers, most of whom slept after the long days of marching.

  The fandyiha wore a black robe embroidered with wild golden patterns. The dark material contrasted sharply with his skin, which was bright red and completely hairless. His umber eyes cast a dull glow in the weak illumination of the light jars. Of the five men at the table, only Mezzino wore a weapon. A long scimitar with a curved, sweeping blade hung from his belt. The Sandlander glanced occasionally at the wall of Hurst as he ate. He'd kept track of the helmeted heads atop the barrier for the past three hours, knowing full well that the duty captain had more than his usual sentries posted. Quite understandable, Mezzino thought. He'd do exactly the same if a horde of westerners appeared along the rim of Crag Vysthuk.

  “I still think we should tear through their little walls and slaughter the lot,” said Teriya. To a westerner, two Sandlanders tended to appear identical. Of course, the Burning Men themselves recognized their physical differences easily. Mezzino could easily pick out the contrasts between himself and Teriya, mostly imperfections in the feyrhakin's appearance. Teriya had rounded cheeks and almost no chin. His voice carried an irritating wheedle, and his eyes were actually watery. Unbelievable for a Sandlander to have watery eyes, Mezzino thought. The man's entire face was a collection of weakness.